But something deep inside me, the part that’s grown increasingly protective of Lucas over these past months, hopes he doesn’t ask. Some truths are better left uncovered, at least for now.
thirty-two
. . .
Lucas
“Your father is herein the Hamptons.”
Jess’s words hang in the air between us. She’s perched on the edge of the guesthouse sofa, still in her beach clothes, her hair tousled from the ocean breeze. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her all day, but the moment she walked in, I knew something was wrong.
“What?” I set down my drink. “That’s impossible. He’s in Sacramento until Tuesday.”
“I saw him at Citarella about an hour ago,” she says carefully, “with a woman named Diane Mercer. He said she’s his director of legislative affairs.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Blonde? Mid-forties?”
Jess nods, her expression neutral. Too neutral. I recognize her journalist face, the one she uses when she’s keeping her thoughts carefully guarded.
“What else?” I ask, my tone sharper than intended.
“Nothing else. I introduced myself, and we chattedbriefly. He mentioned that they were preparing for a donor meeting tomorrow for your mother’s foundation.” She pauses. “He seemed surprised that you were in town.”
I run a hand through my hair as the familiar tension gathers at the base of my skull. Diane Mercer. I’ve met her at campaign events. She’s always hovering at the periphery of my father’s circle, always a little too attentive to be just staff.
“Are you ok?” Jess asks softly.
“Fine,” I say automatically and then catch myself. “Sorry. I’m just surprised.”
Jess watches me, her reporter’s instincts visibly battling with something else. Concern, maybe. “Lucas, I’m just telling you what I saw. That’s it.”
“But you think there’s more,” I say. It’s not a question.
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It matters to me.”
She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, I don’t know anything for certain. But yes, something felt off.”
The confirmation stings more than it should. I’ve heard the rumors for years, whispers about my father’s indiscretions, carefully buried by his PR team. I’ve never had proof, never wanted it.
“I’m not investigating him,” Jess adds quickly. “I just thought you should know that he’s here.”
“Are you sure? Seems like a great story for your podcast.” The words are unfair, and I regret them immediately.
Hurt flashes across her face. “Is that what you think? That I’d go after your family?”
“No,” I say, closing my eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. That was out ofline.”
“I told you because you’re my husband.” She stands and moves closer. “Whatever this is between us, I wouldn’t cross that line. Your family is off-limits unless you tell me otherwise.”
The sincerity in her voice cuts through my defensiveness. She’s standing before me not as Jess Lexington, relentless journalist, but as Jess Lexington-Carmichael, my wife and the woman who’s somehow become essential to my life.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, reaching for her hand. “I know this goes against your every journalistic instinct.”
“It does,” she admits with a small smile, “but some things are more important than a story.” She squeezes my fingers. “I promise, Lucas. I won’t dig into this on my own. If something real surfaces, I’ll come to you first.”
I pull her into my arms and bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of salt and sunscreen. “Just when I think I have you figured out, Mrs. Lexington-Carmichael.”
